Hailee, Lachlan’s fiancé, seems to be one of J.R.’s victims but lived to tell about it. She and others refer to him as the Christian, a man with the gift of gab and determined to sell spirituality . . . his version.
Unsteady on my high-heels, I felt a large hand grab my arm keeping me from falling. I recognized the man with the big brown eyes and shoulder-length, light brown hair, obviously dyed. Relieved, I leaned into the newest Tribune elder. Stupidly intoxicated, I listened to the Christian whisper something then let him lure me into a darkened hallway. I thought the nice man was leading me to Lachlan’s whereabouts. Once inside the nearby stairwell, the nice man slammed my champagne-saturated body against the cement wall. I winced from a searing pain in my head and spine. As my attacker grew closer, I could see grotesque, wiry gray hairs climbing from his nostrils. His breath was heavy with stale garlic and alcohol. Before I could react, the evil Christian planted a sloppy hard kiss upon my lips. I could not move. Warm blood seeped from the back of my head. The Christian’s hand squeezed my throat as the other painfully fondled one of my breasts. His touch burned.